


said icarus

by theleonhearted



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death, F/M, Flying, Self-Harm, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleonhearted/pseuds/theleonhearted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Don’t tell me that in a world with wings, people wouldn’t have arms. It might be so, but you can’t reach your hands into the sky, and I keep telling you that such things are meaningless.)</p><p>Warning for mentions of self-harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	said icarus

**Author's Note:**

> A quick first-person perspective piece. I like writing for Komaeda quite a bit, even if I may not be the best at it.

I do not think you know much about the world. Maybe the one you’ve made, where you can summon monsters with laughter and turn children into monsters, too. But not the real world, where bears are for cuddling and not killing and people are ruled by the sky. A world where hope can give you wings, real _wings_ , that grow from your back.

(Don’t tell me that in a world with wings, people wouldn’t have arms. It might be so, but _you_ can’t reach your hands into the sky, and I keep _telling_ you that such things are meaningless.)

Fight me, then — give me all you’ve got, inching closer, so I can tear that pretty hair out strand by strand. I can see what it’s hiding. But you’ll look at me still — see? I’m turning away, that’s right. They sprout from the lines on my back, except they’re not beautiful and not whole, only grafted deep with silver and thread. I smell like a hospital.

(Don’t tell me what I smell like, hateful girl. Garbage cannot choose its scent. If you could see beyond the canvas of the sky, could see beyond the muck of human hearts, a bit of blood or death would hardly make you protest.)

You, you don’t know what true power is. In this castle — and you’ll claim it as such, even after the country’s towers and towns and trees are yours — your throne is made of pine and plastic; you think just because you rule this lot of trash you know the world. You think power is mass destruction, knives in the bellies of schoolchildren — pointing your fingers to make something explode. You think it’s deciding to have hoshigaki, yes, and never mind that persimmons aren’t in season.

(I’ve known a world like that.)

But you’ll stare, still, at the boy with fabric wings. You’ll think you can dismantle him, identify his parts and pieces, destroy him when you point your fingers. You think you’ll get him to tell you all about hope and sickness and a world where the sky drapes all around you. You think you can fly.

Here. Here’s your knife, here is your spear. Cut into the shoulders, below the blades where the lacerations are already red and angry and raw, and maybe you won’t get blood or disinfectant on those pretty claws. Take the weapon, but you can have only that. Do you have hope in your swing?

Why? Because I’ve already fallen.

(I'm in my bed, after all.)

You’ve heard the stories, surely. Of course, they aren’t right — you see how I’ve still got hands, even if one of them isn’t mine. I only feel things differently now, and the nails dig deeper when I cut into my back. These wings won’t support themselves, and you need two to fly. (Yes, even _you_.)

It isn’t my fault that you can’t see what’s in front of your face. You’re already standing, always standing there with a wing in your hands, poised to kill. You think wings are made of metal and soft stuffing, that they’re triggered with a fuse; you think they mean power. This is your hope; but my hope turns bedsheets into wings.

(And I didn’t mean it, really, about tearing out your hair. From you, I’ve taken enough, I think.)

I know how it feels to hold hope in your hands, sew it up into your body. I know how to break open the sky at the top of the world. _I_ know where death is just a dream, and I know where they’ve got persimmons still in season.

Count the seconds. Watch me fly.

Let me take you there.


End file.
